Dancing turned into a dinner date. My father cooked a bland feast of plain red beans 'n' rice, all the while loudly playing Hunky Dory to further my Bowie indoctrination, and I took on the gag-inducing task of cleaning out the fridge. It was funny experiencing such a domestic scene in our home. Usually we just sort of coexisted, sharing the occasional cup of coffee and discussion about art when our schedules overlapped.

After dinner, he hurried off to Le Chat Noir, and I was left alone, trying to change the overhead lightbulb in the attic. Even standing on my toes on top of the piano bench with my arms fully extended, I wasn't close to reaching it.

"You're way taller in your mind than in actuality, Adele." I sighed to myself.

Fetching the ladder wasn't an appealing task after hauling all of my clothing, books, sewing paraphernalia, and sixteen years' worth of God only knows what else up the stairs, but, unless a bottle of potion labeled "Drink Me" suddenly appeared and made me grow, there were no other options. Then, as I had one foot out the door, a ridiculous idea entered my mind. I stepped back onto the bench, looked up at the old bulb, and imagined it turning.

Nothing happened.

"This is insane," I said, before realizing that talking to myself only confirmed the statement. But then it happened:

The bulb shook a little.

My heart skipped.

I had this feeling that it wanted to move.

Focus. Who knows when the lightbulb was last touched? Maybe it's stuck. I concentrated explicitly on the metal ridges of the bulb's base, picturing them moving in a slow, counterclockwise motion.

"Come on, you can do it!"

It budged a millimeter. This time, instead of fearful, I felt exhilarated.

"That's it. Slow and steady."

I watched in amazement as the bulb slowly unscrewed itself and then plopped into my cupped palms.

My hand shook as I pulled the new bulb from its box and extended it upward. When my arm reached its full length, the bulb left my hand, gracefully floated up to the fixture, and turned itself into place. My shoulders tingled with excitement as the base of the bulb was swallowed and the bright light popped on.

"And then there was light," I whispered, looking around, almost fearful someone had witnessed me bend the laws of nature.

My pocket vibrated before I could further freak out.

"Please, please, please tell me you are moving to L.A.!" Brooke screamed into the phone before I could even say hello.

"Oh my God, it's so weird here without you! How's Los Angeles? How are your parents?"

"Oh no, girlfriend. Don't think I'm letting you off the hook that easily. Are you moving to L.A. or what?"

"Well . . ."

"What? Nooooo! I already cleared out half of my closet for you. I mean, it's not like I really have any stuff, so it wasn't that hard, but still. Adele, this school is uh-mazing. Last year they worked with Rodarte, Chanel, and Project Runway."

I tried to pay attention as she rattled on about the fashion program, but I was stuck on how casually she'd mentioned having no stuff. In New Orleans, Brooke Jones cleaning out half her closet would've been a major feat.

"The program sounds cool."

"Cool? Adele, it's Chanel, as in the empire built by Coco Chanel, your idol—"

"I know! It's just that . . . everything's so messed up here. I don't really know how to explain it. I just can't abandon the city. I mean . . . not that I think y'all abandoned the city. We just had something to come home to . . ."

She didn't say anything.

I slipped off my shoes, climbed into my freshly made bed, and snuggled into the quilt. "So . . . have your parents been back? Has anyone been to your house?"

She remained silent, which was usually impossible for Brooke, so I knew she was crying, which was also unusual for her. I was the crier between the two of us.

I didn't know what to say, so I just waited.

"We don't know anything for sure, but there's not much hope—the whole Tremé was obliterated. Dad's going home next week to see if anything's salvageable and to speak with our insurance agent. The settlement's already turned into a battle. I begged him to let me go with him, but he refused." She paused again. "He says there's nothing left for us there."

I knew it was selfish of me, but I couldn't imagine spending the rest of high school without Brooke. And I couldn't imagine Mr. Jones actually feeling that way. Alphonse Jones was—is a part of this city. His horns could be heard on most of the major records that had come out of the Big Easy in the last couple decades.

A giant lump formed in my throat. There was no way I'd be able to get words out. Do not cry, Adele.

"I'm sure it will only be temporary," I said. "No one's back yet, I swear. Seriously, the streets are empty. It's so quiet."

"Quiet?"

"Yeah . . . it's creepy."

There was another long pause and a wet sniffle on the other end.

"Enough of this mopey stuff," said Brooke. "We haven't talked in like two months . . . Tell me a story. Bonjour, how was Paris? And don't say anything about it being lame, or I will jump through this phone and smack you!"

Classic Brooke. This was why I loved her.

"Well, Paris was . . ." I struggled to describe the raw magnificence of the city. "Paris is amazing. It's Paris." Giddiness rushed over me as I curled deeper under the covers. "It's so hard to describe without sounding like a sappy cliché."

"I already know you're a sappy cliché, so we're all good."

"'There are only two places in the world where we can live happy: at home and in Paris.'"

"Whoa, that's deep, Adele."

"Oui, but I can't take credit; it's Hemingway."

Émile had turned me on to Hemingway, yelling in a fiery fit, "How iz it possible zhat you've never read 'emingway? 'E's even American!" Mortified, I'd spent the rest of my stay devouring all the Hemingway I could get my hands on.

"Again, in your own words, please."

"Hmm . . . Paris has this joie de vivre that devours you. Kind of like NOLA, but times a hundred. Your feelings are heightened just by walking down the street. If you're happy, you want to dance. If you're sad, you want to weep openly in the street."

"And if you want to love . . . ?"

"God, shut up! Do you ever think about anything but guys, Brooke?"

"Uh-huh . . . sore subject, much? Go on, but don't think I'm going to let you keep the Émile saga a secret forever."

That was a conversation I was dreading. Brooke had probably made a hundred friends in California. I really didn't want to report that the one pseudofriend I'd made was also on my mother's payroll. It was exponentially harder to focus now that I was thinking about Émile again. I dug deep for words.

"Paris . . . there are so many emotional things on every street corner—a café where a poor Toulouse-Lautrec used to drink absinthe, a scene from a Baudelaire sonnet, a street Marie Antoinette once rode down, a corner where a revolution sparked. Hugo, Sartre, Piaf, and not to mention Coco—the list is endless! Everyone says you fall in love with Paris, but sometimes I had this burning jealousy of her." I paused to take a breath, astonished by how much I'd been suppressing over the last couple of months, burying anything good that had happened in Paris out of fear I wouldn't want to return home to help rebuild.

"And?"

"And what?"

"And tell me about the boy!"

"Hello, it's your turn! What's L.A. like?"

"Mmm hmmm . . ."

"I mean, besides celebrities and wheatgrass shots?" I pushed.

"Fine. It's not New Orleans, but I get why people like it here. The weather is perfect—like, always perfect. From the Santa Monica Pier, you can listen to the ocean and see mountains in the background at the same time."

"Wow, mountains?" I laughed. "I've never seen a mountain in real life."

"Yeah, the nature here is out of control. It's the polar opposite of home. Everything is clean; no one smokes—well, not cigarettes, at least. Everyone is beautiful, and everyone is always on, from their hair to their clothes to their cars—like they need to be magazine-ready at any given moment." She paused. "The hardest part is my mom. She's upset about the Storm, but she just seems so happy here. She's totally back in her element. We were here for like a day before she was offered this high-powered PR position at Capitol Records, and my dad's been getting all these gigs and recording sessions. She thinks it might be his big chance to 'break out of the New Orleans scene,' whatever that means."

Brooke always joked that she got the best of both worlds from her parents, and I tended to agree. Her mother was a California girl more akin to a Russian supermodel, and her father was born and raised in the Faubourg Tremé, a historic African American community with a rich lineage of prolific brass musicians. Brooke's gene pool gave her a totally unique look and a voice that could silence a stadium. No surprise, she focused on music at NOSA. There was no doubt in my mind she would become a famous singer one day.

"Adele, I'm gonna freak if I have to stay here!"

"Don't worry. If your parents end up staying, you can come and live with us when NOSA reopens." I didn't tell her how bad a shape our school was in.

"Wait a second, if you aren't coming to L.A. and NOSA isn't reopening for a while, why isn't Mac sending you back to Paris?"

The other inevitable question I had been dreading.

"Apparently, Sacred Heart Prep is permitting me a seat." I moved the phone away from my ear.

"What?! Oh, good one, Adele."

"Yeah . . . I'm not joking."

"What? What does that even mean, permitting you a seat?"

"That's exactly what I asked." I explained the situation as best as I could, realizing how few details I actually knew. As soon as Brooke started ranting about prissy girls and Catholic school uniforms, my fingers began nervously twisting my hair. I joked, "Next thing you know, my picture is going to appear in the society column of the Times-Picayune."

"Okay, spill it. What are you hiding? Did you do it with him?"

"Jeez, Brooke, we didn't do it!" My face burned red through the phone. For some reason it was hard to tell her it wasn't even close to anything like that. "I'm not hiding anything."

Well, not about Émile, just about my apparent newfound ability to move things with my mind. I wanted to tell her, but it was the only thing harder to talk about than Émile. "I just don't really know what to say about him."

"But you like him?"

"No. I don't know. We just spent a lot of time together."

"And . . . ?"

"And, he's very hot and very French." I left out the part about me still checking my phone four thousand times a day to see if he'd messaged me.

"What exactly is the problem?"

"He's very much my mother's assistant! And twenty-three! And confusing. Kind of the bad boy, but always knew how to cheer me up, even with everything going on." I didn't know how to explain that he always made me feel like he had some unfair advantage, like he'd read an operating manual on me before we met. "It was almost like he was too perfect."

"Oh my God, Adele! Can't you ever just let something good happen to you without sabotaging it?"

"See?! This is why I didn't want to talk about him! He was fascinated with my banal existence but never really revealed anything about himself." I'd always felt like he'd had some ulterior motive for trying to pry information out of me, like spying for my mother. How could I explain to Brooke, without seeming crazy, that every time I'd let him get closer, a million tiny warning bells had exploded throughout my body, telling me to run?

A sigh came from the other end of the line. "You seriously have abandonment issues, Adele."

My eyes rolled in return. "What does it matter now? He's in Paris. With my mother."

"Have you heard from him since you left?"

"Nope."

"Jerk. Have you heard from her?"

"Nope."

"Double-jerk."

"I'm starting to feel like it was all in my head, like I just read into it too much—"

"Adele, are you still there?"

"Yeah, can you hear me?"

"Are you there?"

I hung up and tried to call her back, but the call wouldn't connect. I couldn't say the idea of ending the Émile conversation broke my heart. I pecked a text and prayed it would go through.

Adele 11:09 p.m. Call dropped. Can't reconnect. Reception here is abysmal. Talk mañana! xoxo.

***

It was after eleven. Dad was out past curfew again.

Trying not to worry, I aggressively fluffed my pillow.

Before the Storm, there wasn't a waking hour in which Brooke and I hadn't communicated in some way, shape, or form. Now, we'd barely spoken since I left Miami two months ago and put a nine-hour time difference between us. My heart told me Brooke would stay in L.A., and I hated that idea.

Soon, I felt myself drifting off to sleep as I lay there staring at the ceiling, thinking about the little things that were slipping away. Things I'd taken for granted before the Storm. But I couldn't muster my lead-like muscles to get up and turn off the light. The long chain dangling down from the ceiling fan started swaying back and forth.

Tension spread through my body until I was stiff as a board.

The chain slowly gained momentum until it swung in a circular pattern. I was so tired it was difficult to focus on the blur. I imagined a forceful pulling motion.

Click.

Darkness.

Breathe.